"Never, till I saw you, Rose—dear, dear Rose—ah, permit me to call you so?" replied Denzil, with his eyes so full of tender emotion that her dark lashes drooped for a moment.
"You must not talk in this way, Mr. Devereaux; but how is one to know true love—for there is only one love, though a hundred imitations of it?" she asked, laughing—she was always laughing.
"Some one says so, or writes so, I think."
"De La Rochefoucauld."
"And De La Rochefoucauld is right," replied Denzil, covering with kisses her velvety and unresisting hand.
"I never thought you cared so much for me, Mr. Devereaux," said she after a pause.
"Cared—Oh, Rose, can you use a phrase so tame as that?"
"Well, I mean—good Heavens, I don't know what I mean! I never thought you loved me. I had some idea that you preferred Mabel—she is so statuesque."
Rose had never thought this; but it suited her to say so, and gain a little time. She half closed her clear brown eyes, and smiling most archly and seductively under their long lashes at him, said in a low voice,—
"And you love me—actually love me?"